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Lost episode of dunkin donuts or something (Dunkin Donuts Massacre Part II?)
This story is not by 'Anonymous'. It's by DaveTheUseless. Have you heard of 'The Red Scare'? It's an event in American history that actually not a lot of people know about. I, myself, was an intern with the Illuminati when I first consulted the era. As it turns out, our previous bosses planted a scheme to make it seem that former important icons such as John Lennon, James Cagney, and the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. we're all actually Communists, because they didn't much care for their agendas. "This is one small step for man", my previous boss, Mr. Hollywood N. Basement, explained, "but one giant leap in logic." At first, I didn't quite know what he was talking about. But now I do. I know it. I know it all too well. Chocolate-banana coated staplers. Jumanji trivia board game with specifically adolescent dreams. In my former job, I was a Baker. You may have seen me in television commercials, assuming that you're not so young that you're still in short pants. Or maybe you just have some sort of bizarre fetish. Anyway, that's not for me to know. If you do, please don't share it with me. As for I, Fred the Baker: I was just starting my first job as an intern Baker for Dunkin Donuts. "Time to make the donuts", I muttered to myself under my breath. Unfortunately, what happened next was terrifying. Traumatic. Words alone could never do it justice. Unfortunately, you see, at Dunkin Donuts, we also sell bananas, to keep the government employed health inspectors off our asses. As you can see, we did not have a janitor, and we were all responsible for the store-wide janitorial duties, even at our subminimum wage salaries. That morning, after removing a delicious batch of festive, Boston Kreme donuts for the occasion... well... I wasn't looking. I tripped. On a banana peel. Talk about both insult and injury. I fell and hit my head on the counter, while the banana peel went off flying to no man's land. Highly realistic gore flew everywhere. Blood, guts, bone, and sinew. It was embarrassing. And more importantly: I was dead. Now, let me tell you what happens when you die: nothing. At all. Literally nothing. Not the absence of everything nothing, but what you thought was life just carried on. I was now a fragmented skeleton, absent flesh and muscular tissue systems and all, but I still had a job to do. "Time to make the donuts...", I muttered to myself. Five hours later, after finishing setting up the donut and bagel racks, my boss, Mr. Dudley, came in. "Oh, no, Snidely." (Snidely was my last name), he uttered in disgust at the human discards that littered his otherwise pristine floor. "There's no fix for this, Fred. You soiled our reputation! And we don't cover your demographic anymore.", he matter of fact you stated, patting some piece of paper that I could not read, as I was now a skeleton. "And we don't pay skeletons workman's comp." The next words were simply too much to bare. I had literally given the job all that I had. "You're fired, Fred. Clean out your corpse and go home." I was dejected. Disenchanted. Disheveled. But I had no say in the matter. He had the big stick, and all I had was... bones. I packed all of my possessions into Dunkin Donuts bags, and bid Mr. Dudley my final audieu. Having no place to call home, I wandered the streets for awhile, learning life's hard lesson that b****es don't spare no change. After bartering my collection of 8-bit NES Nintendo games for sustenance, I finally found my answer in the form of self-sufficiency. I lived out of the woods. Cut down trees with my trusty ol' pickax, and built myself a fancy little cottage with a fireplace, and bookshelf above the fireplace. (As a skeleton, a fireplace wasn't really all that necessary as a creature comfort, but I thought it was kinda cool anyway, pun not intended.) Twelve years had passed. It take about 7 and a half months for me to stop missing the Dunkin life. But then...a knock on the door. And a police officer! "Mr. Snidely. Jury duty." Like any other American frantically attempting to avoid his civic duty, I informed the officer and gentleman that I was dead. "That's okay. The Civil Rights Act of 1964 prohibits us from discriminating against skeletons", he proclaimed. I informed him that I was no longer a resident of the county, but he informed me that I had claimed myself as a dependent when filling out some tax forms under my previous employer. Well, there wasn't much I could say in response to that. "Alright. You win. I'll go. Let me just get a few things first.", my boney jawbox chatted away. Now, I don't know if you know this, but cops are all pigs, and pigs are infamously unintelligent animals. In an act of cunning inspiration, I ran into the bathroom and closed and locked the door. "I just have to take a s***!", I exclaimed. "Okay!", replied Officer Barbrady, or whatever the f*** his name was. Not at all surprised that he had bought my clever ruse, I pulled away the bathroom window curtain, and slid open the bathroom window. "She came in through the bathroom... but as for me, I'm leaving home.", I thought to myself with a chortle, admiring my ingenious Beatles references. I got up and pulled myself through the tiny orifice, before... a conflict, and by no means a small one. You see, when you have skin, blood, and muscle tissue, you can take a fall because your body absorbs the impact like a real life Wolverine. As for me, I never got my bones replaced in operation, and I... I exploded. Skeletal fragments flew off like a defused bomb, piercing a young child who was out picking flowers for his mother's birthday. Pissed off and temporarily inconvenienced, he flipped me the finger, disheveled. "f*** you!", I yelled, but he couldn't hear me. He couldn't hear me at all. Tragically... terrifyingly... I was now severed from the rest of my bones. All that was left of me was a skull. My skeletal esophagus and voice box were now disconnected forever, as all that was left intact of me was my skull. No one would ever hear me make another peep. "f*** this s***.", I thought to myself, incapable of voicing my displeasure. And not realizing that things could only get worse from there... Now, pigs might not be the most intelligent of animals, but they're entirely capable of smelling the smells, even if they can't clever ruses. Having caught the scent of freshly disconnected bones--or, more likely, hearing my crash--the officer responded to the change in his sensory environment and run around the house. Investigating my scattereds, he eventually stumbled upon my skull. Literally. He stepped on me. And it hurt. ... Feel empathy for me. Anyway, he grabbed my head and carried me off, against my will, to the courthouse. As I couldn't be patted down, he plopped my bony skull into a plastic bin and ran me through a scanner which, several seconds later, beeped so loudly that I was surprised that I could hear it, and not just dogs. A friendly looking lady cop who clearly wanted to touch my head grabbed me, brushing her hand over my skeletal forehead. "Gold tooth", she surmised, with a maternal tone and pause. "Sorry, Fred." She... she... She pulled out a pair of pliers, seized my tooth, and yanked it right out like a freshly yoked ox. "Sorry, Fred.", she repeated. "You'll get it back when you are done." With that, she signalled a sheriff to grab me and take me up an elevator. Having motion sickness, I threw up, but the officer pretended not to notice, while we ascended to our final destination. Being a skeleton, and just a skull at that, I had to squint Costanzaesque to peruse the plaque nailed to the courtroom door. "No. f***ing. Way...", I muttered in disbelief. "No f***ing cursing!", the sheriff responded in disdain, smacking me right in the tonsils. I apologized for my reactionary outburst though, and he said I'd get ice cream if I was good. Now, you may be wondering how he heard me, but as it turns out, officers have ESP so that they can see through people's testimonies. I was kind of pissed at this, but I managed to keep it cool and waited for the infamous judge. The sheriff placed me on a pew, stuck a pencil where my ear would've been, and stuck a survey in my mouth. ... a******. Finally, the loudspeaker went off. "This is her case. This is her courtroom. This... is Judge Judy." I would've let out a scream, but before I even could, the door to her side of the courtroom swung open, and... and. Now, I know you're not going to believe me, but Judge Judy was wearing a doo-rag and gold money chain, and was sporting a ginormous, 1980s style boombox on her shoulder. The potential jurors, myself included, all gasped and oggled in delight. But this wasn't even the all of it! Without even taking a seat, she slammed her gavel 5, 7, and then 6 times, as if to let out some sort of secret message. And then... and then... Judge Judy started to rap. A s***ty beatbox beat started blaring. Now I'm Judge Judy, and I'ma let you knew Everything that you're about to hear is true! Redneck blunts, left in the kitchen sink Fannin' flames and fires while you're beatin' your meat Just call me Beaver, 'cause I've got a Cleaver Cutting through your testimonies like a fervent fever Yet you think you got what it takes to beat me Did I even mention that I just bought Wendy's? With that, Judge Judy sat down, brandished a plastic spoon, and ate a spoonful of a small Wendy's vanilla frosty. "Can I have some--", a potential juror in the front row asked. "NO! f*** YOU!", Judge Judy exclaimed, fiery like a Bat out of Hell. Now, I would do anything for love--but I won't do that. I spat the paper survey out and started bouncing my way out of the courtroom, but to my horror, the sheriff had already been blocking the way. "Back to your seat, or your ass is grass and I'm Cut Man from the classic NES game Mega Man", he informed me with intimidation. "f*** this jon...", I mumbled in my mind. I hopped back into my seat and awaited the arrival of the prosecution, defense, and defendant. First things first, the prosecutor arrived. He had a lengthy, metrosexually kempt rock star mullet, and air guitared to the crowd, thinking it an audience. On the other side, the defense attorney walked in, interestingly without defendant, though I couldn't make head--no pun intended--nor tail of it. Sweating profusely, beads of salty self-produced water pouring down his forehead, he turned around and faced us nervously, making an embarrassed face and clenching the back of his spikey hair. "Oh. Hi.", he began, stumbling over himself in nervous anxiety. "I'm Mr. Phoenix Wright. And, I, uh, right over there..." Suddenly, his eyes got all firm and serious, and he stared. Firmly. Seriously. He stared, and stared so hard. I was beginning to think there was something wrong with staring. But what was especially startling... ... was that he was staring directly right at me. Into my soul. If skulls can be said to have souls. He grasped the back of his head hair and got nervous and sweaty again. "Uh, that right over there is my client.", he explained. The audience let out a gasp, and I would have felt a shiver down my spine in embarrassment, if I still had a spine. "Nobody told me...", I started, telepathically communicating again with the Sheriff. "If ifs and buts were all candy and nuts, then we'd all have a fantastical Kwanzaa", he communicated over the airy waves of spacetime and right into my mind's eye. "Now get up out of the pew and pull yourself into the defendant's seat, or you're never getting any ice cream." "Never!?", I shrieked back in horror. "Never." Now, I know what you're thinking: I know what you're thinking. Why would a skeleton be on trial? Well, let me remind you that I'm a skull and no longer a complete skeleton. And even at that, if you think about it, theologians guestimate, based on the Biblical evidence, that we are made up of * a body, spirit, and soul, but it is impossible to state where one begins and the other ends. The thing is, regardless of who you are and what you claim to be, and how you believe that your personality is your very own unique identifier as to who you are and think yourself to be, we're all equal in the eyes of the law (as long as civil rights is properly enforced, but look who's President). I took a tip and knocked myself over, upside-down skull-bouncing my way to the defendant's table. "You're dismissed.", Judge Judy exclaimed. The jurors lifted their brows cartoonishly high in disbelief, forgetting that all things are possible, even if not especially plausible. "As I said", she repeated in judicious rage, grinding her teeth. "Dismissed". I stared in shock and awe as she splashed her vanilla frosty all over the front row lady, who terrifyingly shrieked from freezerburns melting through her body, relinquishing her of an epididymis (that means skin). This meant that the front jury row now sported a female skeleton (you can tell by the shape of the bones where the lady parts would be), except that the jury went home to be with their 'families' (we're all isolated and can never intimately bond with anybody--even ourselves). The sheriff declared Judge Judy guilty of womanslaughter and forced to leave the courtroom, leaving us without a judge, or a hit television program. This was all very confusing. "I guess I'll just go home n--", I began mindbeaming to the sheriff. "I guess you'll EAT s*** or stay here!", the sheriff readily responded, proferring a shovel full of horse manure. Apparently, the previous case involved a horse, who had taken a s*** all over the courthouse floor. "I'll behave", I reluctantly mumbled under my breath. "But only for the ice cream...". There was a 15-minute recess, but as I no longer have organs to feed, I didn't really need to go to lunch, so I stayed there with the lawyers and picked their brains about the law. I don't know how my defense attorney ever got through law school, seeing as how every time I came up with an ingenious question about property laws or where unwanted touching is said to be legally initiated, he simply presented a random object to me as 'evidence'. A rubber duck, a walkie talkie, a kazoo, and a posthumously autographed copy of Green Eggs and Ham. I thanked him out of habit (I wasn't actually grateful, but as a well-groomed Mormon gentleman, I'll never utilize putdowns) until recess was over. Finally, the courtroom door swung open again, and this time, our judge revealed himself to be a middle-aged man with a long, gray beard. "I... ehrm... hello", he started, mumbling to himself. "You took me away from time spent playing bingo with my grandson. You're all guilty." He slammed the gavel. Case dismissed. The sheriff got out of it for being an officer. Phoenix Wright got out of it by raising an objection and presenting a vial of herpes medication as evidence that someone who wasn't even in the room somehow was responsible for the previous judge's behavior, as well as Waco. The prosecutor was dismissed for being a rockstar, and therefore could not be responsible for his actions. The sheriff grabbed my head and threw me in prison, where I would remain for many sleepless days and nights. Brandishing my harmonica, I played many blues classics to myself, in my jail cell, and wrote diary entries utilizing squirrel droppings from the long-neglected ventilator. Until, one fateful day... * This verse missing from many of the most reliable ancient authorities. There I was. Covered in squirrel s***, harmonica stuck in my mouth because I didn't have arms to remove it. It was fusing with my bonestuff and becoming a part of my permanent body, but at this point, I didn't really care. I never got justice. I never got ice cream. I was going to spend the rest of eternity in jail, until... Footsteps. The jingle of keys. The unlocking of my jail cell door. Could it be...? A man with fiery orange hair stepped out of the shadows. "Allow me to introduce myself. You can call me George...", he paused before letting out a last name. "J. I'm a consumer rights advocate. And a former officer. I see that you didn't get your fair day in court, and you've already suffered irreversible..." He paused, examining what was left of me. "... Damages. But never you fear! Here I am, to help you out. Guard, dismissed." He grabbed me and tossed me into his sack, after using some sort of cellphone looking device to snap pictures of the squirrel droppings on the jail cell wall. "Yes... this'll do." He walked especially close to the wall. Having a very long nose, his nose touched the squirrel droppings itself. This, of course, bothered him. "I've soiled the evidence!", he exclaimed. "This will never do. But I've already got what I need." I couldn't see anything from deep inside of the damp, wrinkly sack, but I could feel myself jiggling around and, eventually, we moved up and out of the dungeon. As I had no way of knowing the time (I tend to judge it by the sun, and obviously I couldn't see any sunlight in this state), I can't tell you if it was minutes, hours, or days. What I can tell you is that when he finally opened up the sack and let me out of the musty thing, I let out a titillating scream out of sheer terror. Of all places I could have possibly been brought to, where I was... it was the last place I could have, would have ever wanted to go to. A fate worse than Hell. Worse than being thrown out into the vacuum of space. Worse than literally being burned alive by the sun. Worse than finding a hair in your Pizza Hut Express. This was so, so bad. Awful. Dreadful. Ug Lee. When my eye sockets adjusted to where the orange-haired man had taken me, I realized that I was back where I began. Dunkin Donuts. The one I used to manage. Where my corpse had fallen and hit the floor, there was simply shiny orange and purple tile. "As you may have deduced...", George J began, "You are almost home." "Almost?", I inquired. George J paused and popped the entire contents of a bag of ranch-flavored corn nuts into his mouth, chewing out loud the way that some special needs people (not to mock, I'm sensitive about that sort of thing... please don't judge me) do. "Almost." George placed my skull on the counter top next to the register and reached behind the rack where they keep the vat of sour cream and fritos™ donuts, revealing a largeish button that read 'DO NOT PRESS' in large, size 256, Comic Sans font blood red letters. A loud, grinding noise was heard, and he carried my head over to the other side of the 'restaurant' (come on... don't laugh), where the men's and lady's rooms are. "One second", George asserted. He went alone into the men's room. There was an "Occupied.", and then a... scream. I was scared. Then the sound of flushing. Again. And again. ...Then washed hands. "Gotta keep sanity", George stated after licking his lips. What in the Hell was going on? While waiting for the elevator to rise up, the other guy could actually be seen leaving the restroom. He seemed relatively normal, other than a tear in his crotch area. He did look disheveled, but I got kind of accustomed to that awhile ago. The elevator door opened, and we descended down, while the surrounding area felt warmer, and warmer. "It isn't your imagination", George offered. "We made a deal with the... well, ask Bob Dylan." Ding. The door slid open, and I anticipated the fiery equivalent to the harsh light of day. Instead, what I saw was actually... quite admirable. At first I thought that they were using space-themed wallpaper, but it was actually an actual simulation. Stars and galaxies shined and shimmered with lustuous beauty, while I remembered what it felt like to be alive again. "You now know what it feels like to be alive again", George J remarked. "Remember: I can read your mind." I skull-bounced over to the walls, and fell in love with my surroundings like Ned Flanders shrieking for purple drapes. It was just... beautiful. "I think I get it.", I mindprojected to George. "All this time, I thought I'd find the answer in working hard as a baker, serving the people breakfast pastries and sugary beverages, even though my religion does not permit me to drink caffeine. Then, I assumed that life was meant to be lived alone, in nature, in solitude. Then, when the authorities seized me, I realized that loss of independence reminds us of what is actually worth fighting for. By serving a trial of my peers with my peers, I felt the human bond once again. But all this time, while I was running away from life, in death, or in a life-breathed death, all of these misadventures were just a straying from everyday life and its inherent values. I never should have worked myself to death. I never should have taken my opportunity to serve people their daily bread for granted. I never should have given up on the kindness of strangers. I never should have assumed justice would be served, and that I was somehow not guilty. At the end of the day, people are people, and I am a person. Sure: right now, I am a skull, and I may not look like an entire person, as I am not 'in the flesh'. But look at me. Really, look at me. Look at me for who I truly am. Even though I no longer have a heart, I have still have 'a heart'. I still have hopes and dreams. I still have feelings. Ambitions. I lost many loves. I knew despair. But now, I am a complete man, even with my failings. All it took was the ability to love again. To learn how to love again." I let out what must have sounded like a sniffle. "I love you, George." George glanced a look of astonishment. I waited for an 'I love you' back, having solved his amazing mystery and all of its subtleties. After all that I endured, it all made sense now. All of the cognitive dissonance had vanished. While strange occurrences kept adding up, all along, I was back 'home'. I just needed to be reminded of who I was, in the scope of things. In outer space. I was sure of this. I just now needed George's mutual agreement, as a surface reminder that I was among friends. "I...", George began. "I..." "You're really amazed at how I figured this whole thing out, aren't you?", I smiled. Or would of, if I had the fleshly parts to smile. "Thank you, George. Sincerely. From the bottom of my 'heart', thank you. I don't even care what you did in that bathroom. After all, we're friends. That's what really matters." George looked at me. His eyes became so big. As wide as saucers. And then, they slivered. They slivered, and then they slivered some more. Slivered like tacos. Something wasn't right. In fact, something was deathly wrong. "I...", he continued bumbling, until he finally said what he needed to say. "I can't believe how f***ing r-worded you are!" George J, who turned out to be George Jetson, morphed into Satan, scolded me for writing squirrel dropping messages on a wall, informed me that he teabags strangers as a way of affirming his power struggle with the universe, and then he stabbed me repeatedly with a pitchfork and restored my body again and again just for it to burn in the flames. Then he hired me as an intern for the Illuminati, where I am forced to work eternally without pay. Or ice cream. THE END Category:CreepyPasta Article Category:George Jetson